A Three-Day Jazz-Soaked Odyssey in New Orleans
With Seven Friends, the Spirit of Faulkner and the Absurdity of Ignatius
“The ultimate touchstone of friendship is not improvement, neither of the other nor of the self. The ultimate touchstone is witness: the privilege of having been seen by someone and the equal privilege of being granted the sight of the essence of another — to have walked with them and to have believed in them, and sometimes just to have accompanied them, for however brief a span, on a journey impossible to accomplish alone.”
— David Whyte, Readers’ Circle Essay, “Friendship”
Seven friends. Three days. One city that insists on being unforgettable.
Some places don’t just stay on the map; they embed themselves in your soul. New Orleans is one such place. But what I’ve come to realize is this: it’s not the destination that transforms you. It’s the people who walk beside you.
Three decades ago, we spent four of the best years of our lives at the same college. There were no laptops or mobile phones, just endless conversations, shared boredom, and a kind of friendship that grew deep roots. Fast forward to today: we’re well into our fifties. Our children are preparing to leave for college. We’ve moved from a life of modest means to a stage of relative financial freedom. And yet, we now measure our steps more carefully — our energy, our time, even our sugar levels.
We came to New Orleans from three cities: San Francisco, Seattle, and New York. We were companions in a shared narrative, stitched together with laughter, loud conversations, food, music, and the quiet magic of simply being present.
On our first evening, we had dinner at Peche. My vegetarian options were limited but intentional. The fried okra stood out — crispy, humble, and essential. Like the softer voices in our group, it could hold its own without calling attention to itself.
Later, at The Spotted Cat on Frenchmen Street, the music was an eighth companion. It moved with us, improvising as we did, full of soul and spontaneity. Jazz played with us, filling the silences between our words with feeling.
Day 1: The Rhythm of Arrival
We had a plan, but we didn’t cling to it. Our mornings unfolded slowly as we surrendered to sleep, conversation, and the luxury of unhurried starts. But the city didn’t mind. New Orleans waited for us.
We began at Jackson Square, where the artists were capturing moods and emotions in brushstrokes. Around them, tarot readers and palmists offered glimpses into futures not yet lived. This city, shaped by the rhythms of voodoo, mysticism, and alternate belief systems, lays its spiritual history out in the open. And as I watched it unfold, I was reminded that friendships, too, are a kind of faith and a form of art — layered, expressive, always evolving.
We entered Faulkner House Books, a tiny, beautifully curated sanctuary tucked inside the French Quarter, where William Faulkner wrote Soldier’s Pay. Solitude had once birthed literature here. We were guided through the space by a gentle caretaker. Each of us bought a Faulkner book, knowing (if we were honest) that most would remain unread. But that wasn’t the point. It was a tribute. A shared silence that said: we were here.
Lunch at The Rum House was a burst of color and flavor, the tacos as vibrant as our conversations, spices dancing on our tongues like our old college jokes that had somehow aged into classics. Friendship, like food, is best savoured when shared — generously, without calculation.
Dinner at Commander’s Palace felt like a return to an old ritual. We dressed in suits just as we had for campus interviews decades ago. The restaurant, a New Orleans institution since 1893, stood elegant in its turquoise-and-white grandeur, the legacy of Ella Brennan’s vision. We ordered fine wine, lingered over rich desserts, but what emerged was something even richer: connection.
Even outside the restaurants, connection came easily. Uber drivers sang with us. We squeezed seven people into six-seater vans, just for fun. One driver smiled and said, “This is New Orleans. Just jump in. Why pay for an extra cab?” And so we did.
Day 2: Witnesses to Each Other
The next morning, we lined up, laughing like schoolboys, beside the bronze statue of Ignatius J. Reilly, the eccentric, bumbling hero of the 1981 Pulitzer Prize winning A Confederacy of Dunces. A symbol of glorious absurdity, he mirrored us in some way: for three carefree days, we had surrendered to the ridiculousness of joy.
At Café Du Monde, we baptized our evenings with beignets and coffee. Powdered sugar clung to our shirts and conversations, sweetening both with effortless intimacy. The white-cap-wearing waiters, moving at their own rhythm, reminded me of the Indian Coffee House — cash only, no rush, no fuss. We hopped aboard a streetcar soon after — a charming, slow-moving tribute to a city that prefers you take your time.
That evening brought us to 73 Distilling Company, a whisky haven tucked away from the neon chaos. Ashley, our host, guided us through the poetry of each pour — seven whiskies in total, ending with the legendary Bourbon Moonlight (100% alcohol, not for the faint-hearted).
A spontaneous detour led us to Namaste India, where we ate like pigs and laughed like children. That night, even a simple grocery run for beer and cookies felt oddly meaningful. That’s what time with old friends does — it elevates the ordinary.
Later that night, Bourbon Street stretched out before us — messy, musical, magnificent. It thrived in chaos and we embraced it. Neon lights blinked, people marched past us in gay abandon, strangers greeted us like long-lost friends. Beads rained down from balconies above, tossed by masked dancers swaying to brass bands. We learned that this tradition dates back to the late 1800s, when Mardi Gras krewes began tossing trinkets into the crowd as a gesture of shared joy. What began with handcrafted glass beads has evolved into plastic strands, though some krewes still honor the past with intricate, handmade keepsakes.
The masks, too, carry meaning. Borrowed from medieval Europe, they were once used to blur identity and class, to offer temporary liberation from the roles people were expected to play. Here in New Orleans, behind a mask, you can be anyone (or everyone) you want to be. It reminded me that true friendship offers the same kind of freedom: the space to be fully seen, without judgment.
There’s a special kind of closeness that only comes from traveling with people who’ve known you across decades. In New Orleans, every note of jazz seemed to stitch together our past and present selves into something whole. We returned to The Spotted Cat one more time. It became our anchor, our heartbeat, a place where the music played for us, and maybe, in some strange way, because of us.
Day 3: Departures and Quiet Anchors
We stayed at The Natchez, a beautiful refuge nestled in the heart of the city’s vibrant pulse. It became part of the experience, with mornings that unfolded slowly, with laughter echoing from the hot tub, swim laps in the pool, and conversations that were, in equal measure, absurd and oddly profound. We were letting the city seep into us. Its rhythms. Its warmth. Its contradictions.
A ferry ride across the Mississippi to Old Algiers offered a kind of meditation. Water has a way of reminding us that nothing stays still. As the skyline slowly faded behind us, even our final moments held meaning.
At the airport, our farewell meals — the classic Creole dishes po’boys and gumbo (with a final round of beer) — were layered with memories and history, just like us.
Final Reflections: Friendship as Destination
This was my first boys-only getaway. I left with something far more sacred: presence.
In the city’s above-ground tombs, those elegant memorials that defy being buried, we saw how deeply the city honors memory. And that’s what friendship is, too: a living memory. Not of perfection, but of presence. Of witnessing and being witnessed. Of becoming more ourselves in the company of those who already know us best.
If New Orleans were a book, we had read it aloud, together. And in its jazz-soaked pages we had discovered one another again.
